


five times madara was late to a meeting (and one time he didn't show up at all)

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: (so does hashirama), 5+1 Things, M/M, Madara has PTSD, Mild Sexual Content, mito and madara friendship, what canon timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: After the war, things get better. For the most part.





	five times madara was late to a meeting (and one time he didn't show up at all)

**Author's Note:**

> recovery sure isn’t linear but it absolutely does exist

**(one - march)**

The Uchiha-Senju alliance is exactly one day old today.

People don’t give Madara enough credit, Hikaku thinks. Well—that’s not exactly true. It’s not as if people aren’t _aware_ of Madara—he certainly has a way of attracting attention, for better or for worse. But the things that people _don’t_ realize about Madara—his diligence, his perseverance, his fierce protectiveness—those are the things that Hikaku _truly_ admires him for. Of course, Madara himself is a bit of a double edged sword in that regard. For a while during the war, he had consistently put the clan’s well-being ahead of his own to the point where it was…well, killing him.

(Hikaku didn’t see Izuna die; no one among the Uchiha clan did. But he knew the instant it happened, because Madara’s chakra _changed.)_

Hikaku had watched the way his sightless eyes went dull and dead from grief. He saw Izuna’s corpse lying stiff in its box, a neat white cloth laid over that pale face. Hikaku saw the way Madara’s Susanoo towered over the battlefield on that terrible morning; heard the way his voice cracked as he screamed Senju Hashirama’s name.

It’s been months since then, and things are better now. The war had taken its toll on everybody, of course, but Madara had always held himself to a higher standard than all the rest of them. Hikaku wonders how it’s possible for someone to be such a terrible role model and yet such a competent clan leader at the same time. He’s never seen anyone pull more all-nighters than Madara has, working on battle strategies and budgeting and rationing food. And not only does he know everyone in the clan by name, but he seems genuinely interested in their exploits. And, of course, he is always, _always_ on time for his engagements.

Except for today.

Hikaku is just beginning to worry, and wondering whether or not he should call off today’s clan meeting and go look for Madara himself, when Madara steps into the meeting room, out of breath and sporting—well. How can he put this politely?

Madara has _very_ obvious sex hair. Which is saying something, because even on a normal day, Madara’s hair is not exactly a subtle thing. Hikaku realizes his mouth is open, and he quickly closes it.

“Sorry I’m late,” Madara says—and, Indra’s holy bones, Hikaku thinks, he has the hoarsest, raspiest, I-just-had-sex voice too. All things considered, Hikaku isn’t about to judge. It’s about time Madara got some decent action, honestly. But between the faint scent of hibiscus, the traces of warm earthy chakra swirling on Madara’s wrinkled mantle, and the whispers late last night at the afterparty— _did you see the look Senju Hashirama gave him in the middle of the Daimyo’s speech?_ —Hikaku has a pretty good idea of just what (or, rather, who) Madara was doing after the alliance ceremony last night.

Something else is different about him, Hikaku thinks. He seems—happier. More relaxed. More at home, maybe, too. There’s even a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he goes to sit down at the meeting table.

Well, good, Hikaku thinks, and stands up to give the budget report.

* * *

**(two - april)**

“Listen, Madara doesn’t even have to be here,” Naori is saying. “He already gave us the go-ahead. Hikaku can just pass tonight’s notes along to him whenever he sees him next.”

“Well, all right, but I’d still like him to be present for the final vote,” says Sora, drumming his long fingernails on the table.

“Relax, we all know he has a sweet tooth,” Naori says with a long-suffering sigh. “You’ll get your dumpling shop, Sora.”

“I know that,” Sora snaps. “But I want it _near_ me. It either goes across from my terrace or not at all. I want to be able to smell those dumplings cooking from my kitchen, damn it.”

“Well, remember that we can’t have it too close to the training grounds,” Naori says, consulting her notes. “We’ve not yet gotten approval from the Daimyo to build on that land.”

“Well, let’s hurry up and _get_ approval,” chimes in someone on the other side of the table. “That little hill to the north of the river is perfect for the new Ninneko hideout. There are already quite a few cats living in the area—”

“We can’t just _get approval;_ these things take time,” Naori says exasperatedly, but they’ve already lost focus.

“Did the senbei shop make it onto the list? I forgot to double check before the meeting.”

“We need a _bar,”_ wails one of the elders.

“I still say my tattoo parlor takes top priority,” says Naka.

“Not if I can get my tattoo parlor approved first,” Rai says loudly in response.

“Why should we wait for approval the Daimyo? Has he forgotten who he’s dealing with?” scoffs one of Izuna’s old friends. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve taken land by force.”

Nearly every Uchiha at the table roars with approval. Sora pounds his fists against the wood, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like _dumplings._

 _“Enough!”_ Naori says sharply, her Sharingan spinning to life. “This isn’t _war,_ you lot. We’re not the same scavenging clan we once were, and we are _not_ going behind the Daimyo’s back just to open up some godforsaken tea house, or whatever the hell you’re all talking about. Have some self respect, will you?”

“I’ve always wanted to open my own tea house,” Yumi says wistfully.

Just then, Madara himself limps into the meeting room. There is a flurry of movement as every head in the room turns to watch him as he sinks into his carved chair at the head of the table with an agonized groan. No one speaks.

“Well?” Madara says in the silence, his voice strained. “I saw the list of vendors last night, are we ready to vote on schematics?”

Silence again. Hikaku coughs. Someone at the back of the room drops their quill pen and it rolls quietly under the table.

“Is everything all right, Madara-sama?” Naori says at last.

“I’m…fine,” Madara gets out through gritted teeth. “I threw my back out last night when I was—” he coughs. “Doing some gardening.”

Naori raises an eyebrow. “You were gardening at night?” she says, smiling like a lynx. “How unusual.”

Madara clears his throat again. “Well, many flowers only bloom in the evening,” he says. “For example, the ornamental moonflower opens when the sun goes down, and starts to wilt in the first rays of sunlight the next morning. And I believe there’s a certain foreign strain of yellow primrose whose flowers open at dusk as well.”

“You sure have a lot to say about plants, Madara-sama,” pipes up Yumi, looking like she’s hiding a grin. “You should open a flower shop.”

“Yes, well,” Madara coughs again. “Let’s just get started.”

* * *

**(three - may)**

“I am,” Madara pauses to shove a clump of bean sprouts into his mouth, “so hungry,” half of a soft boiled egg, “all the time.” He puts the whole piece of pork in his mouth. “I feel like I’m thirteen years old again,” he says around the pork. “Only now, there’s enough food to go around. It’s so _nice,_ Hashirama.”

“How much were you eating before?” Hashirama says. “During the war, I mean.”

“Clearly not enough,” Madara says, drinking deeply from his ramen bowl. “Hashirama, this broth is amazing. I demand that you take me here at least once a week from now on.”

“Try not to choke, dear,” Hashirama says fondly.

“I don’t know what’s _happening_ to me,” Madara says. “I’ve been eating three meals a day lately!”

Hashirama smiles. “Madara, that just means that you’re becoming a functional human being.”

Madara snorts. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, lifting his sake to his lips. Hashirama lifts his own cup, beaming.

“Oh, shit,” Madara says suddenly. He sets down his cup with a little _clink._

Hashirama blinks. “What is it?”

“Hikaku called a clan meeting this morning. I completely forgot. After the runner beans fiasco this afternoon it utterly slipped my mind.”

“How much time do you have?”

“It starts at sundown,” Madara says, glancing out the window at the setting sun. The light over the clifftop is beginning to turn gold and hazy. Madara folds his napkin and sets it on the table. He adjusts his mantle. Then he stops.

“Fuck it,” Madara says decisively, spreading his napkin in his lap again with a soft _flump_ and picking up his chopsticks once more. “I paid for my ramen. I’m getting my ramen.”

* * *

  **(four - june)**

“I’ve been looking forward to this all morning,” Madara murmurs, sinking back in his chair as Hashirama’s lips descend towards his pubic bone. Hashirama smirks, makes his tongue soft and hot and broad against Madara’s skin, sinks his fingertips into Madara’s thighs the way he knows Madara likes.

“Ah— _fuck.”_ Madara gasps, squirming against the desk.

“Drives you mad, doesn’t it,” Hashirama moans, his voice muffled, “not being able to touch me all morning—don’t you want to just—”

 _“Yes,”_ Madara says, loud enough that anyone walking by the Hokage’s office would definitely be able to hear him.

“Shhh,” Hashirama whispers, then performs a sort of upward flick with his tongue that sends Madara’s chakra flaring utterly out of control. The window panes rattle. A picture frame falls off the wall and lands in a potted plant by the door.

“You—damn—Senju—” Madara gasps. “You know I—I like when you do that—”

“Careful, darling,” Hashirama murmurs, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice. “Wouldn’t want to—ah—set the desk ablaze.”

“You’re _enjoying_ this!” Madara hisses suddenly. “You’re getting off on—on getting _me_ off, aren’t you?”

Hashirama makes a muffled sound that’s very close to a whimper. Then the desk shatters beneath them and they land in a pile of wooden splinters. Dust billows around them in chakra-infused clouds.

* * *

(Very luckily, the Hyuuga clan ambassador is _also_ running late that afternoon.

“Won’t be more than a moment,” the Hokage cries out from behind the office door, opening it a fraction of a sliver. The ambassador catches a quick glimpse of his flustered face before it slams shut.)

* * *

  **(five - july)**

“Madara,” Mito says, putting aside her crossword.

“Hmm?”

“Not to pry—” she stops, and grins widely. “That is, not to pry _unkindly,_ but—”  

“Mmm,” Madara murmurs, “what?”

“Isn’t Tobirama expecting you in the office at noon?”

“Eh?” Madara says, stirring slightly on Mito’s futon. “I suppose he is. What time is it?”

Mito retrieves her fan from her sleeve and snaps it open. “Ten minutes past the hour.”

“Five more minutes,” Madara mumbles, rolling over into a particularly warm patch of sunlight. “It’ll do the bastard some good, being kept waiting for a while. He should learn to expect the unexpected, if you ask me.”

Five minutes quickly turns to twenty.

* * *

**(august)**

Hashirama curses himself as he crouches by Madara’s side, the kettle forgotten on the stove somewhere behind him. He should have seen this coming. Madara has been doing well—they both have. But—well—they can’t just make the war disappear, because the truth of the matter is, it _happened,_ and there is no denying that it happened. It has changed their lives permanently; it cannot be undone.

The evening had started out innocently enough. They had eaten dinner. Gone to the parlor to sit. Madara’s headache had gotten steadily worse—Hashirama felt his forehead and declared that he seemed a little warm—and he had gone back into the kitchen for medicine. And then this had happened.

Hashirama is no stranger to incidents like these. In fact, he’s _intimately_ familiar. Helping someone through a flashback of this nature is a very different experience from having one yourself, though, he thinks. But he can handle this. He always has. He just wishes it wasn’t Madara. God, he wishes it wasn’t Madara.

Madara is curled up in a tight ball on the kitchen floor, arms rigid over his head, hair covering his face. Hashirama takes a deep breath and moves a tiny bit closer, careful not to touch him and agitate him even more. He lets out his breath, as gently as he can manage. Madara will be fine. He’ll be _fine._

“Madara?” Hashirama says softly. “Madara, it’s Hashirama. Do you know where we are?”

Madara doesn’t answer. Dark chakra rolls off him in boiling waves.

Hashirama continues in a low, steady murmur. “Madara, it’s Hashirama. It’s just past seven o’clock. We’re in your kitchen. We’re safe. We’ve just finished eating dinner. I was about to make tea…”

Slowly, Madara raises his head. Hashirama manages not to visibly flinch, but it’s a close thing. A trickle of dark blood from Madara’s left eye is running down his cheek. His breathing is uneven and shallow; his jaw is clenched tight. His eyes are unfocused, the tomoe of his Sharingan spinning idly. And his hands are shaking so badly that Hashirama is reluctant to touch him like this. He looks inhuman, almost, like a starved and cornered wild animal of some sort. But Hashirama knows that’s absurd; it’s just Madara; it’s just Madara and Hashirama can help him, right now, right here. He shakes himself of the thought; forces himself to focus.

Madara’s breathing is getting deeper. “Hashirama,” he rasps. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Yes, it’s me,” Hashirama says quietly. “Madara, you can deactivate your Sharingan. You will probably feel better.”

“Ah,” Madara says, his eyes still wide and glassy and red. He doesn’t move. Finally, he takes a wheezing inhale and blinks and his eyes turn dark and cautious again.

“That’s it,” Hashirama coaxes, “you’re doing fine. Just keep breathing. Can you tell me how you feel?”

Madara has to think about that one for a moment. He lets out a trembling breath.

“Head still hurts,” he says at last, his voice hoarse. He frowns. “I feel… _awful.”_

Back on the stove, the kettle begins to whistle.

Madara blinks. “Tea,” he says vaguely.

Hashirama nods. “Would you like some?”

“I…” Madara begins. The whistling increases in volume. “Yes.”

“All right,” Hashirama says, and goes to stand up.

Madara seizes Hashirama’s sleeve, pulling him back down. “Wait,” he says. “I’ll…I’ll come with you.”

They pour the tea together. Hashirama sets the two teacups on a platter, and then places one hand on Madara’s back, up high near his shoulder, and gently guides him to the futon.

They drink their tea in silence for a few minutes.

“I don’t…know how it happened,” Madara says slowly. “I just—everything spun out of control in an instant.” He puts his hands over his mouth, takes several long breaths in and out.

Hashirama reaches over. “May I feel your forehead again?” he says.

Madara sets his tea aside with a little _clack._ He nods.

Hashirama brushes the black coarse bangs aside and places his palm on Madara’s skin. He frowns. “You definitely have a fever,” he says. He tucks a lock of Madara’s hair behind his ear, the way he knows Madara likes.

The tiny motion is not lost on Madara. He smiles tiredly at Hashirama before slumping back against the futon, his eyes sliding closed. He lowers his head.

“Back when—when Izuna…” Madara trails off. “When I…got Izuna’s eyes, they—well, it was a difficult situation, and the clan didn’t have competent medics willing to do the operation—and they got infected. Badly. It was just like this. I felt like I was back there again.” He shudders.

Hashirama bites his lip, hard. He hadn’t known.

“They chafe, every so often,” Madara continues, blinking hard to demonstrate. “They _hurt,_ Hashirama. They’re like a constant reminder of—well. Everything that happened.”

“I can try to heal them,” Hashirama says. “And I can soothe your fever, too.”

Madara is shaking on the futon now. He takes another tiny sip of his tea, then reaches over and drapes Hashirama’s haori over himself. “All right,” he says. “And then… I’ve got to oversee the meeting, at the shrine…”

“Madara, as a medic—”

Madara takes another long breath. “It’s just a fever. I’ve showed up to meetings with worse, believe me.”

Hashirama winces. Unfortunately, he _does_ believe him. “As your _partner—”_

“I should still go. I need to—I need to be there, I—”

“Madara, look at me,” Hashirama says.

Madara does.

“I know that _you_ know that you’re not fit to go,” Hashirama says firmly. “And I’m sure the clan would prefer that you take care of yourself for once.”

Madara’s eyes cloud over with relief. He curls up on the futon, his head in Hashirama’s lap. “All right,” he says.

“And if not, well…”

Hashirama makes the familiar handsigns. His wood clone springs to life. “I’ll make sure they understand.”

“Thanks,” Madara says. The front door closes behind Hashirama’s clone. Very carefully, Hashirama places one glowing hand against Madara’s eyes and gets to work. At once, a few of the lines disappear from his forehead and around the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks for making me stay, Hashirama,” Madara mumbles.

“I had hoped you would,” Hashirama says, and takes another sip of his tea.


End file.
